


The Devil's Due

by Dizzydodo



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And it gets them in ALL the trouble, But Matt is smarter, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone is too protective, M/M, Magical Realism, The Devil is a Sneaky Bastard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzydodo/pseuds/Dizzydodo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy strikes a deal with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, knowing well that the Devil always makes the better bargain- his soul for the safety of his family.</p><p>Fortunately for him, Matt is still in there somewhere and he's not about to let the Devil collect without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bargain Struck

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt from the kinkmeme: (Link in the after-notes)
> 
>  
> 
> _The devil of Hell's kitchen is actually a devil. He makes deals with criminals and if they don't hold up their end of the bargain, he takes them out. (The bargains are small, like a bag of gold for certain favors)_
> 
>  
> 
> _When Foggy asks for favors, he always delivers on his side of the deals. The Devil is surprised but wonderfully amused by this reliability. It's getting to a point where the Devil is asking for ridiculous shit just to see what Foggy would do to get the favor done._
> 
>  
> 
> _Then one day, the Devil is shocked when Foggy offers up his soul for a favor._

Foggy knew all the stories: Poe, Faust, Marlowe, obscure myths he had half-forgotten as the years passed, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of what he had done. What he would do again if it ever became necessary.

He had expected fire and brimstone, smoke and screams rising from the pit of hell itself- as for what its master would look like… he wasn't certain, but it hadn't been the man he had found waiting for him. Small, whip-thin but with a wiry strength in his frame that made his every motion seem more graceful than cautious, though he was that too. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and devil in truth as far as Foggy Nelson knew.

The smile was the first thing to strike him: warm and open, but with an edge of mocking contempt beneath that was reflected in the crinkle at the corner of his lips. Even the tilt of his head reminded Foggy of a hawk he had seen once, listening for the scurry of a mouse through the grass. That encounter had not ended well for the mouse. Almost he had reconsidered, the deal was not struck until they had shaken hands on it, and it had taken a minute or two for Foggy to work up the courage to so much as speak. He could have left then, but there was enough of a challenge in the stranger's silence that he had felt compelled to answer.

"I don't know if you'll even bother with something like this-" It wasn't the tone he would have struck with a client or colleague, lacking all of his natural confidence, but then, this was the _devil_ and nothing other than children's stories ever ended with someone besting him. Foggy was counting on that, he desperately hoped it was true.

The man was silent, smile fading to a mere smirk that managed to convey both profound disinterest and eagerness all at once. Foggy tried not to dwell on it too much.

"One of my clients, Mrs. Cardenas-" He didn't care, nothing Foggy could say would change that, but dammit he was going to try because she deserved more than to be forgotten, "was murdered a week ago.. The news said it was a robbery, but-"

"What do you _want,_ Mr. Nelson?"

"Foggy." He shrugged, "Might as well call me Foggy. And I just want him caught. I want to throw him in a cell so dark he forgets the warmth of sunlight."

The smile returned, so smug and arrogant Foggy wanted to slap it right off his face. He didn't, it wasn't good business.

"Done."

What? As simple as that? Foggy knew better. He had come prepared, not with anything so cheap as money, but possessions he held infinitely more dear. The Devil never took more than they could afford, those few desperate or foolish enough to strike a deal with him, but he always took enough that the pain of it would linger.

"What's my part?"

He had thrown him, the Devil himself, it was there in the minute squaring of his shoulders and the way he shifted to adjust his weight.

"Only a strand of hair this time."

Foggy's neck prickled at the casual assumption that he would ever resort to this again, blood freezing at the thought of turning anything of himself over to this shadow man. A strand of hair might as well have been his flesh and blood, his soul.

Mustering far more courage than he had ever thought possible, Foggy grabbed a hank in his fist and _pulled_ viciously. It stung enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he made himself smile anyway for the first time in over a week.

"Here, take a little extra on me."

The devil was startled again, his smile vanished and did not return as he accepted the hair like strands of precious gold. The tilt of his head became less pride and more curiosity, brows lifting behind the dark glass that concealed his eyes from even the glare of the street lamps. Foggy saw none of this, exhausted and relieved and frightened out of his mind all at once.

He turned and strode away, completely oblivious to the way the Devil seemed to follow his progress. Never once glancing back to the shadows nipping at his heels.

 

 

 

 

 

In the safety of his own apartment, Foggy toed off his shoes, fumbling for the light switch by the door. The darkness felt oppressive, like it was deliberately hemming him in on all sides to prevent any possibility of escape. As a child he had never liked the dark, insisting that the hall light be left on each night so that its comforting glow would seep into his room and illuminate every corner. Perhaps it was his guilty conscience that made his instinctive fear all the more acute.

The light was blinding when it finally flicked on, every light in the room at full power and damn the utilities bill. If Foggy Nelson still feared the darkness there was no one to remind him of it any more, and he could do as he pleased with the electricity he was paying for.

He made his slow way to the couch, collapsing onto the dilapidated monstrosity as though the weight of the world on his shoulders had forced him down at last.

It wasn't like he had demanded the nameless man's death, Foggy assured himself, only a chance at ensuring that he faced justice. There was nothing wrong with that, even his occasionally defective moral compass said his intentions were above reproach. But then why had he resorted to such dubious means? If a thing was worth doing it was worth doing right. So many times he had heard his grandmother snap that at him, normally when she had caught him slacking at his studies.

But what chance would he have had otherwise? Whomever had killed Mrs. Cardenas was just another face on the street, another name probably stored somewhere deep in courthouse records. He didn't know even where to begin, and most of New York's finest had other priorities, some lining their pockets with ill-gotten gains and others already overwhelmed with work. It was so easy for one old woman to slip between the cracks, particularly when she had no family or close friends to speak for her.

Still, the Devil. That he was inhuman was beyond dispute; the Devil had been the bogeyman of Hell's Kitchen for as long as anyone could remember. What sent most of the neighborhood kids scurrying to their beds was the thought that this city's very own demon might take a shine to them and follow them home one night.

It didn't work that way, he knew that now.

For one thing, the man-or creature, or whatever the hell that thing was or had been- never ventured where he was not wanted. By _someone_ at least. The Russians had abandoned their trafficking operations on the docks after he had paid them a visit. Their victims were overjoyed to be freed, and the city as a whole had fallen into a sort of hectic celebration, but Foggy was certain there was more than one person that wanted him off the street, not all of them criminals. The Devil didn't play favorites. Rumor said that more than one corrupt politician owed their rise to him, and what was sure to be their eventual downfall.

That was the last rule that everyone knew: The Devil always made the better bargain. Foggy's shoulder blades still itched even now, feeling the phantom weight of the Devil's unseeing eyes on him. Whatever he had given up tonight, it was likely dearer than the strands of hair he had seen. A cold shiver ran through him, completely unrelated to the chill of the room. He had honored his end of the deal, there was no reason for the demon to seek him out, if demon he was.

Good little Catholic that he had been, Foggy crossed himself at the thought. Maybe in other cities or other states the church did not teach quite so zealously that spirits could walk with human faces, but in Hell's Kitchen even the staunch atheists conceded that the rules governing what was natural and what not were a little different here-Widdershins had been grammy's word. Foggy thought it sounded ominous to fit the place, but this was his home and until tonight the Devil had been nothing but a bit of local color, another fact of life in the Kitchen.

He felt astonishingly, sickeningly, real now.

Foggy reached for his phone, reconsidered halfway through the motion and buried his head in his hands. Karen knew where he was meant to be tonight. She had been the first to suggest to him that desperate times called for desperate measures, that after all they had gone through and all they had lost there should be nothing left to fear. Two shots into a long night, Foggy had agreed on the condition that she not accompany him or involve herself any further than she already had.

What had happened with Mrs. Cardenas was not her fault. _He_ had been the one that encouraged her to keep her home, that had gone to bat knowing what these people were capable of. Karen had been nothing more than the mouthpiece through which his words had been translated. What sickened him most was how much lighter his heart felt. He _knew_ absolutely that the Devil always kept his word- every story had been painfully clear on that point. Especially the part where the promise you heard was never quite the one he had actually made.

"I just want him caught." Foggy mouthed aloud. He had considered his words so carefully, keeping them few lest he introduce a loophole. 'Just' as in 'no more' as in "I don't want any more blood on my hands." As in "No less, because I can't find this bastard on my own." Just.

Then his tongue had run away from him, a wish slipping from his mouth before he could remember why he had been so determined to hold his peace. _Every_ word could now be held against him in courts far more binding and less merciful than a court of law. Foggy did not regret it. He had done his job, he had paid the price, and he was a free man.

Yet when he turned off the lights that night, all save the glaring kitchen lights that reached far into his small alcove of a bedroom to chase away the dark, the few shadows that lingered still beneath his bed and behind the headboard, tucked into whatever shelter they found, clung to him. They reached for him even as he twined himself in comfortingly familiar sheets, enveloped him when the breaker flipped as soon as his breathing grew even with sleep, curiously mischievous in their character, if shadows could be said to have character.

In Hell's Kitchen, at least, they did.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"I don't want to talk about it." They were the first words out of his mouth come morning when Karen greeted him at the door, unforgivably bitter coffee clasped in her hands and eyes wide to take in his rumpled clothes, the pallor of his skin and the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

Foggy was surprised to find that it was true. There was no part of him that wanted to share the burden with her. What he most wanted was to find his desk, dig out the heaviest stack of paperwork he could find and bury himself in it until she bullied him out the door for a rushed lunch.

"There's someone waiting for you in your office. Police. He-"

"Who?" Foggy tamped down on a wave of panic. Just because the Devil kept his bargains did not mean there was no further price to pay. What if his nameless assailant had friends on the force and they were here to deliver a personalized message?

"You know what, never mind, it doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is that I want real coffee this morning, not the taste of my old and bitter soul poured into a cup. I'll give you my wallet if you get a cup for both of us."

"In other words, you want me out of the office. Which isn't happening because that isn't how my job works, Foggy. I'm your secretary, not your errand girl." She shoved the coffee into his hands, hardly noticing when it sloshed over the edge to spatter her hands. It was cold then, too. Wonderful.

"Karen-" He stopped, taking in her own appearance for the first time; same jacket that she had worn yesterday, make-up hastily applied, hair out of place in a way she seldom allowed on the job. She was as scared as he was, and like him wanted no part of being alone. "Wait out here, all right?"

"It's Brett. He won't-" Relief was so sharp and sudden Foggy could have fainted. Brett. Probably here to chew him out for that last delivery he had made.

"You could have said so first thing. In fact, next time, do that."

"There better not be a next time, Nelson." Foggy nearly leapt out of his skin, surprised at the voice that seemed to come from right off his left shoulder. He spun in place, pasting on a beaming smile for the glowering cop leaning against the door jamb of his office.

"Brett. How are things? Any cases for me?"

"No, but you sure as hell screwed up my night. Do you know how much paperwork comes with a murder confession?" The mock scowl faded to be replaced with a relief not unshaded by sorrow. "Cardenas' killer turned himself in at about one this morning. Made a full confession of it. He's an addict, killed her for a fix he said at first. An hour later he was screaming for me again, begging to recant and change his statement. Now he's saying someone put him up to it. He doesn't know who, but we have a description at least."

"Thank God." The words felt wrong coming off his tongue. He knew whom he owed this to, and it still made his skin crawl with unease. But it was done, their bargain was complete on both sides and Foggy had every faith that with a not-so-friendly nudge the justice system could take it from there.

"Then it _was_ you. What the hell have you done, Nelson?"

"The Devil." Karen murmured when Foggy refused to answer, so casually it took him a moment to process it. But of course it didn't have the same meaning for her as for Brett and he. They two had grown up together with the same myths, the same understanding that their home was a little different. He vividly recalled a night when he had lain awake staring at the ceiling for hours because Brett had threatened to strike a deal with the Devil himself if Foggy didn't find the comic he had borrowed and return it.

He had never found it, probably another casualty of his mother's relentless need to make sure everything was in its place and to dispose of those things that didn't have one. Brett had never summoned the Devil either. Foggy supposed that made them even.

Karen had grown up in whatever passed for a normal town outside of New York, and he was sure wherever it was there were other stories to tell, but this was one figure she would never truly understand, never take for granted the way every city-raised kid would.

"Son of a bitch." Brett hissed, and Foggy wasn't sure if he was meant to be the object or if Brett was only speaking his thoughts aloud. Either way, his dismay was plain.

"When d'you get off duty? I'll buy you a drink and we can celebrate."

"I'm off in two hours, and that drink better come with a damn good story, you crazy bastard." Admiration, fear, disbelief, but no disgust. A tension Foggy hadn't even realized was building released as easily as that. He was still Foggy Nelson, now he was just the Foggy Nelson that had dared to deal with the Devil and come out of it unscathed.

He would tell a story all right: one of fire, brimstone, the wails of the damned, and a creature as warped as its purpose. No one would ever believe the truth.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

Father Lantom did not start or turn; he had known his visitor's identity from the first sweep of a cane echoing throughout his sanctuary. He kept his eyes trained on the crucifix above him as he finished the last of his prayer undisturbed. As a younger man he had been in the habit of lowering his head and closing his eyes, one carefully instilled all through his schooling and seminary; here most of his parishioners prayed with their eyes open, locked on the cast image of a God otherwise invisible to them.

He suspected that for them, much like him, it was a comfort to see the image. When the Devil could walk the streets wearing the human face, it was a necessary reminder that other paths were available. Not that Father Lantom had ever considered this man 'The Devil'. That he had witnessed firsthand abroad, and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was an altogether more fair creature.

As to what he was… Father Lantom called him Matthew. It was his given name whether he remembered it or if it had been swallowed up by whatever entity it was that spoke with his mouth. He called him Matthew still, because nights like tonight he was reminded that there was a sliver of Jack Murdock's son left in there, something that sought out the familiarity of the church when it was troubled. Father Lantom liked to believe it was a shred of conscience that lingered untouched by the burning need for vengeance that had so consumed him at his father's death.

Whether that was the way it had always been- a willing vessel who retained an awareness of self- Father Lantom did not know. The Devil had worn many faces in his time as a priest here: a little girl whose smile had frozen his blood, a gray-haired man with a voice like steel sharpened on rock, an aging woman who never smiled at all but whose eyes burned with such memory that even the bravest had not dared to meet her gaze.

Of all of them, Matt was the only one that had actually managed to enter the sanctuary rather than standing listless without, watching but never partaking. He was the only one that had dared to sit beside an aging priest and say 'I remember you' as though that were a remarkable accomplishment.

He was also the face that had stayed unchanging the longest. Whatever it was that had taken Matt Murdock and left this changeling in his place, it had evidently met its perfect match.

Father Lantom stood, crossing himself one final time, ignoring the gesture as the Devil mimicked it. Once he had thought it might be a mockery of his faith, but Matt never smiled, never faltered. Could the Devil pray? Or was it an agreement between them, this body and its spirit that he _would_ so long as he wore the skin of Matthew Michael Murdock? Father Lantom did not ask; it was not his place.

"This is not the confession, 'hello' works just as well."

It was the established greeting between them now, repeated every time Matt ventured into this domain. And Matt he was, here at least, and now. Father Lantom tried not to consider what he wrought when he left hallowed ground. It was only here that the shadows did not follow him, twining and twisting into unnatural shapes as they followed his figure. Beyond the church grounds Father Lantom never looked to Matt's shadows- not his own nor the ones that followed like so many faithful pets.

He moved to the pew in front of Matt, massaging sore knees, "I become more feeble every year. One of these Sundays, I will genuflect and stay down." A familiar complaint, and one that Matt knew better than to respond to with anything other than a hum of acknowledgment. Father Lantom would make no deals, he knew. He always knew who would believe his services were worth the cost from those that would not bend until they broke.

Father Lantom did not know it and the Devil did not say, but he was the first of any of the priests here who fell into the latter category, and his precious flock took their courage from him.

"I heard one of the Russian brothers is out of commission. Are you planning on taking over this city yourself?"

"It isn't worth it." The sneer that flicked across his visible features for all of a second was bitter and disgusted.

"We'll have to agree to disagree. This city was your home too, Matt, you thought it was worth something. You thought you were going to save it then."

"I do, father. One soul at a time." A genuine smile this time, but one that set Father Lantom's teeth on edge, steeped in cruelty and the satisfaction of a bloody thirst sated. He recognized the wickedness in it.

But the smile vanished as swiftly as it had come, leaving only Matt Murdock behind. "What do you know of Franklin Nelson?"

"Omniscience isn't one of your gifts?"

"No." A simple word, spoken on a whisper that held just an edge of threat. It was a tone the Devil had never taken with him before and that instantly set him on his guard.

"I was there for his first communion; it was in my early days here, but he's a hard one to forget. He ruined his suit before he ever reached the altar, lost his tie somewhere between the parking lot and the aisle, misplaced his shoes before the service was over. I found them months later hidden under one of the plants that used to be in the vestibule. The choir instructor called him "Foghorn"; the other kids picked it up, used to tease him and call him "Foggy." His mother had a conniption when he started introducing himself that way."

Father Lantom's smile warmed at the memories, but paled again when he remembered who was asking for them.

"Franklin Nelson hasn't stepped foot in this church since he left for college. Why?"

He knew why, the knowledge prickled the hair on his arms. Foggy was a good kid, and he had been well on his way to growing into a fine man. Whatever had driven him to strike a deal with the Devil himself after all his lessons, Father Lantom knew it must have been drastic. Maybe it was time he found Mrs. Nelson's number again, gave her a call and asked after that wayward son of hers that had so stubbornly insisted on leaving the family business to make his own way even after she had warned him how it would turn out.

Matt was silent, his expression inscrutable. He couldn't trick the Devil, Father Lantom knew, but if they spoke long enough perhaps he could puzzle out an answer to his question.

"I heard you dealt with the Russians for money. What use do you have for money?"

"None, but there are others who have given me a great deal to possess it. This city is saturated with greed and avarice."

"Was that your undoing, Matt?" He doubted it. Matt Murdock had grown up poor, but he had never known it. It was enough for him to be Jack Murdock's son, to patch up the cuts and bruises and eat together at table.

Matt had never wanted anything so much as to be his father's true son, and when that had been taken from him- Father Lantom thought it might have left him open to far more sinister things. He had disappeared from St. Agnes not a month into his stay, and The Devil's face had changed again to that of a solemn young boy too skinny for his height, eyes concealed behind the shades he always wore, and fingers clasped about a cane he held in front of him as though it were a sword… or perhaps a shield.

Father Lantom never asked what had become of the other faces he had worn. He preferred to live in the hope that one day Matt Murdock could be restored wholly and completely. He knew better, but his was a faith of miracles.

"There are so many wicked people in this city, Father."

"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God."

" I was not finished speaking-the tongue can no man tame."

"Hm. In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin. Consider that before you finish."

For the first time he felt as though he sat alone in Matt Murdock's presence, no tinge of whatever shade gripped him remaining. He looked so very lost-

The illusion was gone in the next instant, the smile had returned, the one that left Father Lantom with no doubt as to whom he spoke with. "You would understand my purpose, priest, if you could see inside men's hearts."

"Women too, I imagine." Lantom interjected wryly.

"Even the children are lost. This city is without hope, and corrupt souls are not hard to come by."

"The soul of a man is more precious than gold-"

A sharp bark of laughter cut him off, mocking and sincere,"I have bought most of them much more cheaply, but so few of them are worth even that. I can find hundreds of wicked souls, Father, thousands when I walk among them. The trouble is finding any of _worth_."

"Then I am glad we agree the Nelson boy is worth something. Leave him alone."

The Devil sobered, assuming a thoughtful expression. "The good ones are always few and far between, fewer still the ones willing to give it up. Nelson is mine. He is the first in many years I will have a use for. Turn your attention to your flock, priest. They will need you in the days ahead."

It was Matt that had entered the church, but it was the Devil that took his leave, and good riddance to him. Father Lantom rose with a heavy heart, making his way back to quiet rooms he knew would echo with the memory of that laughter.

 

 

 

 

 

The people he passed on the sidewalk shied from him without quite knowing why. Most simply drifted to the other side, dismissing their unease as a courtesy, avoiding the cane he absentmindedly swept before him. Some few never took their eyes off him as they passed; they could not have put a name to him, but they knew him because there was a likeness in them that called to the spirit in him. For all that he did business with them, what little was left of Matt Murdock struggled constantly with a driving need to leap for the throats of these latter and spill their precious life's blood on unfeeling stone.

His was a spirit of vengeance, and they were guilty of so very much.

He could see the weight of their sins, imagined and actual weighing on their souls. Dull, dim, like reflections in a brass mirror. Some few flickered like banked embers still, a memory of who they had been sustaining them when all should have been lost. These were the ones that flocked into the empty churches, pleas and prayers dripping from their lips in equal measure, begging for their old fire of conviction. Few ever found it again, but those souls were all the more dear for being tried. They never came cheaply.

Others were void, so lost to their conscience he saw them not by their presence but absence. These would willingly have dealt with him, but there was little there to make use of and the deals he made with them were easily carried out, their half of the bargain seldom delivered, leaving him with no choice but to take it by force or cut his losses and take their worthless souls instead. Father Lantom was right. Some were sold cheaply, but even the weakest and most wasted of them were worth far more than their possessors realized. It was the potentiality of them; what they might have been, what they could yet have been.

The rarest were those few untarnished souls that still burned brightly despite the years. They were often battered, always tried, but he took pleasure in seeing them even when those souls would not be his. They were bright and warm, undiminished.

Father Lantom had such a soul, it had flickered but never waned with his hope sustained him.

Franklin Nelson, Foggy, was another. He wanted that soul, wanted its fire to feed his own, that need for justice and love of fairness could so easily be turned against him, turned to an impure lust for vengeance.

Matt rebelled against the thought even as he welcomed it. In such a way had he been lost… or made. His had been a bright soul, he knew so because those were the only ones his Devil ever wanted for itself. For themselves.

The one that had come before him was an old man, blind like him and long since broken; the Devil had no use for broken tools. What use to it was a lost soul, one that had so completely forgotten its purpose? But Matt, he had called to it, he had prayed so faithfully for a way to bring his father back, and when that failed he had performed every childish ritual it was said would summon the Devil, knowing that if the sisters found out it could cost him his home but convinced that to see his father again it would be worth it.

When all else had failed, he found the right words at last: Not so save his father, not to bring him back. Time and Death were not within the spirit's purview. Instead Matt had pleaded for a way to avenge his father, to make certain that the men that had killed him were laid low. He had given his sight to save a stranger, for his father's sake he would give his _soul_.

He had been heard, and no less than the Devil himself had come to collect. Matt had known him the moment he strode through the door, and he could have ordered him out and shut the door then. The Devil did not go where he was not welcome. Instead Matt Murdock had curled in, wrapping his arms about his knees to make a place for the man to sit.

His prayers were answered, Stick had said, though not in the way he had hoped. Vengeance for his soul- more accurately, the use of it. One vessel had become too old, past the point of healing or slowing down its inevitable deterioration. He was young, his body was strong and his resolve was a veritable beacon for any spirit on the prowl.

The deal he had negotiated was more than the Devil had wanted to offer. He was alive far past the point when he had seen his vengeance carried out, his memories kept his soul intact far longer than the puppets that had come before. He would be a vessel, Matt had said, but he would live. He was going to be more than a Devil in a Murdock skin suit. Murdock boys had the Devil in them to be begin with, and he was willing to share.

But it would be an equal share. He wanted to save this city, how it was done was none of his concern. The Devil had agreed: Hell's Kitchen would be saved, its only cost was one boy that would never be missed.

By dawn the deal was struck, by evening he was beginning to understand the feel of his skin stretched too tight, straining to contain two very separate but comparable wills. They functioned as one now, mostly, but Nelson's thoughtless offering of more than had been asked had woken Matt from his comfortable stupor. Foggy's was another soul worth having, and he had not asked the salvation of the city for it so the Devil's terms still held.

He could not take Foggy Nelson's soul at the cost of the city, but there were so many more things a man could want and having made the deal once he would lose his fear of it when the teeth didn't become immediately apparent.

Another soul, another body- this one without the nuisance of having to share. Matt could feel the thought there, pressing at the back of his mind. So often they operated in tandem the Devil and he. They had become one man, inseparable from each other. But like the city he roamed, the Devil was greedy, always seeking whom he could devour. He would have to move faster, force the Devil to honor his deal before his time as vessel was through; it was a fragile tether that held them together, and thinner still by the day.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

James Wesley had been a special case: dedicated honor student, dutiful son, a very successful, and very bored accountant when he had graduated university after two and a half years of study. He was remembered by his peers and superiors alike as a quiet man, always pleasant, always polite, always startlingly efficient.

That wasn't how his mother remembered him: always secretive, always sly- skulking about the house like a viper in the grass, neatly dodging her whenever she tried to speak with him. Between the drugs, alcohol, and long periods of attempted withdrawal punctuated by violent fits and rages, Matt thought the boy had been right to distance himself.

James cared for her, so much so that he had not reported it when the money that should have gone toward his schooling went to her addiction instead, so that when she threw that bottle at his head he had never once mentioned to her when she sobered up that it had actually connected. There was no police report, he had assured all the nurses that he had been rough-housing with friends and there was a surety in his manner that prevented them from asking twice.

His father had been wise enough to leave when he first discovered that black temper, but not brave enough to take his son with him.

James Wesley had wanted nothing more than someone who would accept his loyalty and return it in equal measure. Religion was not the answer for him; after so long without, Wesley needed something he could touch, who would speak with him face to face. He didn't seek a cause to occupy his time, neither recognition for his gifts; it made him the perfect ally of a man like Fisk.

Wilson Fisk craved the glory and recognition that had been denied him all his life, desperately seeking something-or someone- worth protecting. He had found it in Hell's Kitchen. Having struck his own bargain, Matt could not quibble with his methods, but Wilson's soul was a shriveled, wizened thing that still sparked with brief flashes of wild fire. Wesley kept that alive, that final spark. His pride in Fisk, his willingness to make the man's mission his own was what sustained them both.

He had not known at the time what a gift Fisk would give him, but the Devil was glad he had caught these souls- without them he might never have lured Nelson so near. It was all Matt could do to suppress his instinctive distaste, knowing that had he remained entirely mortal this might well have been him. He was no longer sure whether it was their methods that so disgusted him or their half-heartedness. Fisk's resolve was beginning to waver- not in a way he could sense, not yet, but Matt could see new life coursing through him and he knew it came from that woman- Vanessa.

How was it that all the broken souls drew each other? No similarities between them but what they lacked, and somehow they beckoned each other like moths to flame. It hardly mattered, he supposed, all that remained now was to collect his due and watch from a distance as Fisk either prospered or failed. It was in him to be great, but Matt was torn on whether he wanted the man to succeed, mostly because he could sense the Devil wished it wholeheartedly, and he knew the spirit fed on the suffering of the innocent as easily as the wicked.

Matt counted it his duty to ensure the guilty paid a heavier price, but that came with the understanding that even so, the innocent _would_ pay some price, usually in their blood.

Wesley was the one to greet him when he allowed the shadows to melt away at last. The man had an uncanny knack for sensing where it was the Devil would appear; more often than not he was ready and waiting by the time Matt put in an appearance, thoroughly bored with the whole affair. To look at him, one would have thought James Wesley conversed with Devils every day of the week, but Matt could hear the way his pulse began to fly, his breathing growing shallow and ragged beneath his eloquent speech.

He never flinched or stepped away, though. Wesley had learned young the only way to manage a predator was to stand one's ground. They respected that in him.

Today what he offered was no more than a ring, silver clear through and laden with the regretful wishes of three generations. It burned Matt's palm as he slipped it into his pocket- silver had ever been a pure and holy metal. Not since he was a child had he been able to wear one of the proper crosses most of the children in Hell's Kitchen wore until they grew cynical and decided they had far more to fear from the devils they didn't know than the one they did.

"Pleasure, as always." Wesley's tone was dry, as dry as his fear-parched throat. He was not born and raised in this city, the scent of it refused to cling to him, its meandering ways still escaped him. He was one of those that had never credited the idea of a 'Devil' before he had come face to face with him, a desperately lonely young man in a dilapidated bus stop venturing out into the darkness for one last glimpse of the night sky before the street lights swallowed the last of the stars.

It was where Matt had found him, unafraid of the dark, drawn to its peculiar comfort despite himself. Wesley had not believed at first what was offered or requested, but he had kept his word to a man he thought had only the frailest grip on sanity. Trouble was, Matt was the only sane one left in this damned city, the only one with sense enough to still distrust the being within him.

"Nelson. Is the name familiar to you?"

"Is it a part of our bargain?" Wesley arched his brow, knowing full well the answer. That was the trouble with him; an attorney without the benefit of schooling, only raw instinct to guide him. Matt would have struck that deal too, had he asked it, given him a comfortable office with his name on the door and a record to make even the top firms in the nation salivate with greed.

But that was the trouble with lawyers, they understood the idea of a contract a little too well and were as careful in their dealings as the Devil himself.

"No, but failing to answer could prove detrimental to future negotiations."

Wesley considered for a moment, visibly weighing the cost and benefit of answering, wary because he could see none. "Cut-rate defense attorney-"

"I did not ask the details of the profession, it is the _name_ that interests me."

He would set Father Lantom and Wesley on the same trail. They would clash; Wesley's precious resources would be diverted to determining what it was that both the Devil and the priest saw in Franklin Nelson. Wesley's methods were never gentle. It would not be long before Nelson was forced back to him, presented with a choice of forging another deal or watching his loved ones pay the price. Matt would keep him safe. Just.

"I don't know anything more about him."

No, but by day's end Wesley would make sure he knew _everything_ about him, and when even that proved too spare to make the connection between Nelson and the Devil he would dig further still. Dig until Lantom began to think perhaps it was less the Devil and more the mob Nelson sought to escape. He would leave them to their stalemate and steal the prize from beneath them, content to wait until their combined machinations drove Foggy Nelson into his waiting hands.

Slowly he allowed his shadows to devour him, twisting and warping until Wesley thought he stood alone, the light bent around him to conceal that which did not wish to be seen.

 

There was one final place to visit before he could begin his coup: The law office of one Franklin Nelson, attorney at law.


	2. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stay" he says, and Matt is helpless to resist. 
> 
> Of course, that wasn't what Foggy meant at all and the Devil can get out of his office right now because he knows what comes next.
> 
> Matt Murdock, however, he might be welcome to stay. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the feedback! 
> 
> Saturday will be the update day for this fic until I run out of pre-written chapters. Which is still a little ways out. ^.^

"Foggy, it's almost eleven."

"Hm."

The door creaked open another inch, Karen's concerned face peaking around the edge. "There's nothing urgent is there? I thought I had color-coded everything, and that tab looks suspiciously green. As in, doesn't need to be done until tomorrow."

"Yeah, just thought I'd get ahead. Less chance of having to burn the midnight oil tomorrow if I finish my work today."

He both did and didn't want her to press. Half of him was hoping Karen would catch the rawness in his voice and push through the door to sit with him, ask what was wrong and did he want to talk about it? No, he didn't, but the question might divert him for a few minutes.

A civil suit like this shouldn't have taken him more than a few hours at the most, but again and again he found himself re-reading the papers, not a single word absorbed. He stayed because he could not bear to be alone. It was comfort enough having another warm body in the room next door.

"We should walk home together," Karen pressed, stepping just a little farther into the room to peer closely at him.

A convincing poker face was not one of Foggy Nelson's gifts but he gave it his best shot nonetheless. "I can walk you back."

He didn't want to, since he had struck his deal everything in the city seemed to have grown more faded. The lights no longer as bright as they used to be, darkness gathering thick in corners that once would have been flooded with their comforting rays. It was his imagination, he knew, but that made it no less unsettling.

"But you're not going home." Karen finished, folding her arms disapprovingly.

"Not yet." _Not tonight._

"We got him, Foggy, he's not getting out for years."

"What?" Oh, right. The Addict. That was his name in Foggy's mind, giving him any other would have reminded him that there were far more effective means of ensuring the man never walked free. He smiled, a pale imitation of one at least, "I know, but it doesn't really fix anything, does it?"

"We know he won't do it again. I think that's fixing something."

A noncommittal grunt was his only answer, fatigue suddenly weighing heavily on his eyelids. Perhaps with Karen there to keep him diverted he wouldn't notice the prickling between his shoulder blades, that faint but pressing feeling that he was being watched. Or more accurately, stalked.

"All right, good. Fine. Home." Home to an apartment where he woke up each morning to find the clock flashing on the microwave, evidence that the power had gone out the night before. Once or twice he might have discounted, but every morning now he woke up knowing it would have to be reset. His neighbors had no such issues; he had made a point of cornering all of them to ask. The answer was plain: his was the only apartment on the fritz.

Coincidentally he was also the only one in the building stupid enough to have given the Devil his hair, the only one stupid enough to have dealt with the Devil at all.

Then again, he was also the only one on his floor with blond hair, and the only one that didn't own a TV, and the only attorney in the building. He was grasping at straws, but if that kept him calm who would object?

It didn't help that for the first time in nearly three months his mother had called, plying him with conversation for details about his office and his charming secretary, were he and Karen finally going to 'step out' together? Oh yes, and father Lantom had called; he was worried too, and didn't he feel even the slightest bit guilty about that?

It had left Foggy with the creeping feeling that he might be more at ease if he started frequenting the church again. Ten years worth of sin was a lot to confess by anyone's standards, but he had always found father Lantom more forgiving than most. There was an earthly quality to him that Foggy had found lacking in his colleagues. If anyone would understand what he had done it would be Lantom.

Nearly eleven. The church was probably closed and barred, but since he was in no hurry to be home anyway-

"Let's go."

Karen grinned at his renewed enthusiasm, the spark in his eyes that had been absent this past week. This was the man she knew, the one that had tossed a promising career at a bustling firm under the bus in favor of opening a firm that had not once made a profit in their year together. The one that had stepped out to help an aging woman keep her home, and offered everything he had when she lost not only that but her life. Finally their old rhythm was returning.

She took his arm when it was offered, completely unaware of the way her eyes skittered away from the corner as the light flicked off, almost as though compelled. Foggy looked though, glanced and froze when he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision as though the dimness was twisting and churning into an all-too familiar shape-

He looked ahead, clamping a protective hand on Karen's arm, denying what he thought he had seen. "I'm thinking we should take the long way. It'll clear our heads."

"Any chance of coming in late tomorrow?"

"Not like we have anything pressing. Call it nine-ish."

"Long way it is."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was a humble office, floorboards that creaked beneath his feet, the scent of too-dry wood almost overpowering. The desk beneath his fingertips was worn down in the center, poorly balanced and perched atop a magazine to prevent its rocking. The secretary's- Karen's- desk was nearly as bad with the way its drawers groaned and resisted opening. Even with the two of them reporting for work six days a week there was still the faintest scent of disuse about it.

It was soothing the way this building resisted change. It welcomed the old things like him; the things that didn't quite fit into the city's heavy trudge toward modernity. Better yet, the dim lights allowed him to gather his darkness near. It was always just there beneath the floorboards or a decrepit desk, hidden in the cabinets and the tiny closet that Nelson never used for reasons even he didn't comprehend. This too was an older sort of darkness, and Matt could feel the whisper of its secrets against his skin.

Foggy fought it though, the shadows here rested lighter on him than in other parts of the building; they were eager for Matt to leave, almost willing him to. It was a rare experience, one that he had only ever encountered that last night at St. Agnes'. This room did not want to surrender its secrecy, and for all that it welcomed the ancient spirit in him, it resisted his bidding. Here at least the darkness was not quite his ally, always shifting away, always trying to catch an unwary eye and give warning to the office's occupants.

Perhaps that was why Matt found himself lingering each night, growing accustomed to its treachery, each night his shield a little easier to pierce. Foggy and Karen had seen him tonight, but he was certain only Foggy would remember it. It was inevitable though, that the part of Nelson he had taken should draw them together. Was that not its purpose?

He released his darkness, his shield, watching as it visibly recoiled, leaving him in a dimness like twilight whilst all around him he sensed a blackness dark as pitch. Matt delighted in the novelty of it, even as he felt the spirit roil with offense and frustration. The Devil and the void did not come hand in hand; he wondered what deal had been struck to make it his domain and half-tamed servant.

Only ever half-tame. The Devil forgot that sometimes. Matt Murdock never did.

He rested a moment longer, learning the feel of aged wood against his fingertips, the fading smell of the perfume Karen preferred and the pervasive scent of starch and linen that was the only one Foggy would deign to wear. The only one that did not offend Matt when it struck him. Tomorrow morning at nine he would present himself again, this time in the light and open where Foggy would feel safest, and he would offer a new deal. Not a soul, no, but something a great deal heavier and more binding than a few strands of hair.

Blood he thought, no more than a drop to seal their pact and still more than Nelson would be comfortable offering- but what wouldn't he give to know the name of the man responsible for the path the city was taking? His faithful bloodhound at the police station would be all too pleased to dig for more evidence, and neither one of them would find anything worth having.

But Wesley, with his eyes and ears spread throughout the city to rival the Devil himself, would take note. He would deal with the new threat ruthlessly and expediently.

Pity Foggy didn't know what Karen was up to in her free hours. Matt would be sure to tell him, right after he had secured Karen's cooperation. A taste for danger was the very least of the secrets she was keeping from her friend, from her boss. What she had the Devil did not know, but it ate at her day and night until he could never be sure whether she would be dull or bright come morning. With each passing day, the dull embers grew less with exposure to Foggy. He had a way of keeping every soul bound to his burning, turning dross to gold.

The spirit in him stirred again, sensing an opportunity no doubt. Matt surrendered himself to it and in the next moment, he was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Foggy made it nearly a quarter of the way to his old church before surrendering. The streets were dark and there was a chill bite in the air that pierced right through his jacket- or at least those were the excuses he used to justify it. In truth, the echo of his own footsteps made him jumpy, every alley suddenly seemed the perfect place for an ambush, the audible buzz of a streetlight reminded him that electricity had not been his friend lately, and the night itself was smothering him in an unbreakable and entirely imagined grip.

He knew he was not well, and he knew why. Worse yet, he didn't regret it. One first required genuine repentance to ask forgiveness, therefore he could not in good conscience confess and beg forgiveness, so what use the church? It all sounded very reasonable in his own thoughts, but self-delusion was a skill Foggy knew he had been practicing for an entire lifetime. Just now, he wanted to deceive himself into thinking he was going to get home safe, that he would sleep like an infant, and when he woke the clocks would not be flashing. He clung to that secure belief every time he passed another loner on the street, jacket pulled tight around their faces and noses buried deep.

There was no need for worry, anyone that took too much of an interest in the well-dressed man wandering such unsavory streets found their thoughts diverted, old sins replaying before their eyes in perfect clarity, long-forgotten fears plaguing their every movement. At the moment he was the safest man in Hell's Kitchen, but to Foggy's mind these streets could never be safe again, not with the amount of bloodshed he had seen these past weeks. There were forces moving in the city he knew he did not comprehend, and half-knowledge was proving every bit as dangerous as blissful ignorance.

"If ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise." The words slipped from his lips on a heavy sigh, carried through the night air to ears listening for just such words.

His mother had taught him that one, back when he was fresh out of undergrad and full of his own importance. He had held forth over supper about the injustices rampant in their town, all the things that needed to be fixed and the people best-suited to carrying them out. It hadn't made for a scintillating conversation, but he had been so full of the fire of his conviction that when his Dad had quietly asked him not to ruin the meal and drag down everyone's mood, Foggy had smugly quoted "Ignorance is bliss."

Only to have his mother snap back the rejoinder. It was his first, and heaven knew far from last, lesson in humility.

"I should've listened, but I am a freaking moron." He tilted his head back, appealing to the sky. He was terrified of speaking with the God of his childhood, worried that anything divine would no longer want to sully its hands with him. He had made his choice, and he was managing it in the best way he knew- alone, without involving anyone else that could be hurt by it.

That feeling of being watched that had pressed at his shoulder blades for weeks now grew more oppressive than ever, the hum of the streetlights turning to that crackle that always set his teeth on edge-

The shrill ring of his cell phone nearly sent him to his knees, instinctive tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as his body kicked into a fight or flight response. His hand was shaking badly enough that it took two tries to hit the answer button, and when he did Foggy half-wished he hadn't succeeded.

"Yellow?"

"Dammit, Foggy, he's dead. Your perp is dead." Brett's voice came through the line as an angry whisper, so soft Foggy had to press a free finger to his ear to block out the ambient noise of the neighborhood.

"What?" His bloodless lips almost refused to shape the word.

"Hung himself. That's what I've been told to say, but he couldn't have done it and I don't fucking know if it was one of ours or-" Brett cut off, the sound of running feet coming from a distance. He resumed again, quieter still and more intense, "One of ours or someone outside. I thought you said he would live?"

"I didn't ask for him to _die_ , I wanted to put him away. I wanted…We had him, Brett. What the hell, we had him."

"Where are you? Are you home?"

"Out."

"Get home and stay there. Shit is hitting the fan. Do you have any-"

"No. Fuck no. No firearms, no weapons, keep them out of my apartment."

"Fucking stubborn." Brett growled, but there was no heat in the words. He had known what the answer would be before he ever asked and respected it too much to press. "Guess it doesn't matter though, considering who you're dealing with."

"I need to go. Keep me posted, all right?" He was going to hurl, it was no longer a question of 'if' but 'when'.

"I'll do what I can. Tomorrow. Get some sleep. Enough for both of us." The line went dead before Foggy could think of a cavalier rejoinder. He couldn't remember ever having felt so terrible, so ill that even taking the next step felt like it should be beyond him.

He had honored his half of the deal, had been so careful with his wording and intentions. How had the Devil slipped by him? The Father of Lies, appearing as an angel of light- no, no it didn't make sense. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was no fallen angel, for all the face he wore now could have come from one. And if he was not strictly aboveboard in his dealings, he had a reputation for painstakingly fair dealing when it came to honoring his bargains. He lengthened his strides, making for the false safety of his home, reviewing memories he knew were flawed.

How many times had he questioned a witness that earnestly maintained their story was true despite all evidence to the contrary? Some of them believed it, he could read it in their eyes and see it in their open, vulnerable gestures. The image on camera could not lie, but every one of them claimed their eyes could not have deceived them. Memory was fickle, too colored by perception. Had he been as careful as he thought or could this death be laid at his door? Did he dare to seek out the Devil again, to confront him?

Yes. Foggy knew he wouldn't rest well until he knew what his part in this had been. The thought of facing down the smiling man again was not half so frightening as the thought of dying with another man's blood on his hands all unaware.

Besides, he comforted himself, there was no guarantee the Devil had any further use for him, and if he didn't then there could be no danger.

Somehow though he knew it might make him feel better to speak the words aloud, Foggy couldn't quite bring himself to. No one knew how the Devil found his debtors, but personally he had always suspected that no less than the Devil himself was behind all those cautions about the power of words that could not be recalled. He kept his fears and doubts locked tightly behind his lips, hands clenched tightly in his pockets, and eyes wide open.

 

 

 

 

 

The darkness fled at Foggy's entrance, retreating to Matt's side, gathering at his back with the equivalent of an offended hiss. It sought his protection, desperately preserving its own existence from Nelson's vicious determination to eradicate it wherever it was found. Tonight, as he had done every night since first he had met him, Matt waited. He tolerated it when Foggy instinctively threw on every light in his home, trying to chase away the last vestige of the Devil's sanctuary. It was never wholly effective. There were always shreds and tatters to be found that Matt drew about himself as easily as the folds of a familiar coat.

The Devil stirred in him, remembering times before when the streets had not been bathed in such unforgiving brightness and the moon had provided her subjects with all the cover needed for their dealings. They had been many then, but from the first day man learned to strike fire their number had begun to diminish. Men took light and iron, silver and prayers with them  everywhere they went, hardly remembering why. Their fear was no more than a lingering impression bequeathed by ancestors and old stories. The spirit resented that more deeply than even Matt's vengeful nature could appreciate.

Nelson was agitated. Matt forced himself to notice it, wresting back his own memories with a vicious twist of concentration it had taken him the better part of a decade to master. From tomorrow onward he would need to be Matt Murdock in truth, and he was woefully out of practice. He had never been certain of who he might have been without the spirit's intervention, too young and malleable to have an impression of self beyond what his only family meant to him.

The sour vinegar stench of cheap wine assaulted his nose, but Nelson didn't bother with a glass. He rarely did these days; only a sip or two, only enough that he believed it would loosen his violin string tight muscles and slow his wildly racing heart. Tonight the wine mingled with another scent- the salt of unshed tears and a tang of stress hormones in his sweat.

Ah. He had heard then.

"Are you there?" Nelson murmured, unnaturally still, instinctively wanting to flee but forcing himself to stand his ground. "The lights are out every morning, I barely sleep. Is that you or me?" He swallowed hard, stripping the tie from his neck as though it were a noose strangling the life from him. "You know what, forget I asked. I don't want to know. Forget all of this, I'm sorry I ever talked to you and it's not happening again." A sharp clack of his teeth punctuated the statement. Foggy knew he was a good attorney, and half of being a good attorney was knowing when to speak and when to wait.

Nelson was wrong though, if he thought they were not speaking again. Matt Murdock had a nine-thirty appointment, and once he was in it would take nothing short of a literal miracle to force him out.

He followed Foggy to the smaller bedroom, reveling in its peculiar silence. Everywhere else in the apartment they could hear neighbors conversing, rough-housing, cleaning, _living_ and even for Foggy it grew overwhelming. But though he had no care for it, the void protected Foggy here. It deadened the noise until even Matt felt more at ease, chased away the cold that always managed to seep through the walls in early winter and sought out any shelter near him. He drew the darkness naturally, in the same way Matt had when he was young, but where in one it had sought a kindred spirit, from the other it craved only his warmth.

Nothingness was always bitter cold, it seared both flesh and bone until the memory of it never entirely left...

The mere thought was enough to shake Matt's concentration, leading to another desperate yet contained struggle with the spirit within, another fumbling attempt to keep his ephemeral shield firmly in place between his own plane and the Human one. He could feel Foggy's eyes lingering on the place where he would have been, could hear the catch in his breathing when he thought he might have seen something, the relieved sigh when he decided it was no more than a trick of the light.

True to his word, Foggy did not speak. He choked on every attempted prayer, eyes still fixed on that corner that had been not quite right for all of a second. There were so many questions tumbling around in his head, so much guilt weighing him down and already he was so weary…

It felt like a betrayal when sleep took him at last, mercifully deep and dreamless. No sooner had it claimed him than the lights flashed once, swallowed up by an eager darkness.

From the corner of the room the Devil stepped out, taking up his silent vigil at Nelson's bedside. Come tomorrow there would be no more need for this. Foggy would turn to him each day and Matt could guide him in the way he needed to go, hopefully well enough that it would save both their souls. If not, then at least one of them would be saved. Matt still had not decided who. Seeing the way Foggy's soul flickered and burned he knew who it ought to be, but he had been too long the Devil's companion to ever deal justly.

The tables turned in Foggy's favor nights like tonight, reminding Matt that he had made his deal for a cause greater than himself. The child he had been would have been ashamed he even contemplated saving himself at the expense of another.

Beside him, Foggy began to twist and writhe, alternately grabbing for his blankets and pushing them away, heartbeat far above what it should have been even awake. Nightmares, and no wonder.

Wesley had taken matters into his own hands again, eliminating the threat where it was found. Matt delighted in it even as he knew it would make any future negotiations with Nelson far more difficult. He _had_ abided by their terms in the strictest sense- Foggy had his first day in court, had thrown the man into a cell he likely never would have left once the case was through. It was none of his doing that the man was dead. Nelson hadn't made the deal for his life, that would not have come half so cheaply.

They would discuss it in the morning as the first order of business.

He stayed for hours, listening again to the few memories the apartment held, basking in the feeling of security that blanketed all the rooms. Even now he did not feel he was in danger; Matt was no longer sure whether it was confidence or arrogance on his part to think he could best the Devil.

But he did, a little. Nelson was convinced it would all come out right in the end with the sort of determined optimism Matt and the Devil concurred should be reserved for children. It was infectious, but not so much that Matt could ever fall prey to it. So he kept watch, stayed near, wove memories and dreams in equal measure and tasted what little he could of Nelson's hope and spirit.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Devil wore pinstripes. Foggy knew because that was exactly who greeted him as he strode into his office at nine-thirty on the dot to meet with one Matthew Murdock. He looked different in the daylight, smaller and less threatening, his unsettling shadows banished to wherever they went when they were not with him. Foggy was not fooled.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He kept his voice low, still hoarse with the morning cold and lack of sleep. Karen was in the next room, all unaware of who she had admitted by their front door. Until he knew why the creature was here he wasn't going to alert her to it. Safer for both of them that way.

"Did you not want me?" That curious tilt to his head, the one he had given Foggy when he proffered the hank of hair. The same smile, mild as milk but filled with teeth.

Foggy didn't want to see it, not now and not with this… man, but he was beautiful. It was more an attitude than any particular feature, there in the arrogant set of his shoulders, the mischievous tilt to his chin, just the right tinge of challenge in it to make his opponent respond. His movements were preternaturally graceful when he took the chair before Foggy's desk, folding a musician's slender hands about his cane, crossing his legs nonchalantly for all the world as though he was welcome here.

Like every word that came from his mouth it was all deceit, Foggy thought uncharitably. There was no warmth in his smile, the mute challenge calculated to provoke his prey into action, those seemingly gentle hands were covered in scars that caught the sunlight just so, lines of silver and faded pink about the knuckles. Foggy fixated on that. His scars made him seem human, wrote a story in his skin Foggy would have given his soul to know. The dimple at the corner of the Devil's mouth said he knew as much, suggested it might be a deal he was willing to make.

"I don't want you here. I don't want you anywhere near me." All true and yet not.

"Were you in the prison last night too?" Foggy growled, yanking his chair out with suppressed violence and leaning across the desk in an attitude of attack. He jumped when the Devil swarmed across the desk to meet him halfway, their hands so close they nearly touched. Sparks of awareness raced across his skin, compounded by pure adrenaline. He wanted to pull away, but that would be giving ground-

The Devil spoke, softly, intimately, so that close as they were Foggy was forced to draw nearer still, hardly daring to breathe.

"That was none of my work, but I know where you can find the man responsible."

"No." Nothing was free, not here and not with this one. Foggy knew better than to ask.

The Devil drew back, hands clasped before him in an attitude of consideration. Foggy was weighed, pulled apart and measured, his every thought and secret, emotions and motivations laid bare. Or so it felt like. The man across his desk remained inscrutable, even awash in sunlight.

He who spoke first was lost, Foggy had been at work long enough to know, but now the silence was too much for him and he rushed to fill it with a question.

"This is the cycle isn't it? I catch one with your help, you offer another and I take him too and on and on until it's all for show because I don't have my soul any more."

"Not at all. There are very few who take a second deal, very few to whom I would offer it-"

 _Anatoly, Owlsley, Marci_. The names were on the tip of his tongue but Foggy dared not interrupt.

"But you more than honored your part. I am left in your debt, Franklin Nelson. Give me this chance to wipe the column clean between us and I will be on my way."

It fell on his ears with the ring of truth, but experience whispered there was a trap here too.

"You're not telling me everything-"

"He is not deceived who knows himself to be deceived."

"I never liked philosophy."

"Philosophy is composed of ephemeral hypotheticals. I only ever offer truth, unpleasant as it may be. I will not ask of you something you cannot give, Nelson, but I can offer you something you don't even know to look for."

 _Fuck_. Why hadn't he thrown this bastard out the moment he recognized his face? He was in no way prepared… Except.

A debt the Devil had said. That gave him power, brief and fleeting though it might be. If there was a debt then this once he would owe nothing. Clear the column, resist temptation and throw Satan's Little Helper out on his ass. He would ask no more than the Devil had offered, that might change the balance between them, but a name he could take. No help, just a name.

He couldn't speak, a nod was the best he could do and that pulled from him under duress.

"Did you nod?" The Devil was still, dangerously so.

Foggy swallowed his unease, "Yes."

The Devil smiled, wide and bright and wicked. "I am blind, Foggy. Tell me, will you take my offer or must I stay?"

 _Stay?_ _No._ No more sleepless nights or power outages, no more sense of being always watched by prying, too curious eyes. No.

But the word that came out of his mouth was "Stay."

Matt started, covering his unintentional slip by uncrossing his legs and adjusting his cane.

"Stay." It was a word he had not heard in many years, not addressed to him. Nelson was reckless, destructively so. The Devil in him thrilled to the offer, accepting the welcome with dubious intentions. Matt did too, for reasons of his own. It  _stung_ viciously, but he welcomed the pain. Foggy had no one to blame but himself for what came next.

Matt's smile warmed at last, genuine and dark as the pit his spirit had crawled from. "Agreed."

 

* * *

 

 

Foggy jerked awake, gasping for breath, bathed in a light sheen of sweat despite the coolness of the room. He threw the covers away and stumbled into the bathroom, swearing softly when once again the lights refused to turn on at the flip of his switch.

He threw on the tap anyway, splashing his face with water cold enough to wake the dead. It was a dream, only another dream. Why was he still so nervous then? Why was his breath coming short and his pulse so thready?

It didn't matter, he was just damn relieved that a dream was all it had been. He wouldn't really have been so stupid, Foggy assured himself. He had learned his lesson: The Devil always made the better bargain.

Finally he was able to force a chuckle past his tight throat; there was arrogance indeed, thinking the Devil would have any further use for him. Why he had bothered in the first place Foggy still hadn't figured out, but he wouldn't come calling a second time.

But the lights still wouldn't turn on until he had made his way to the kitchen and flipped the breaker. He glanced once at the flashing clock and turned away, there was no point in reseting it. Fortunately his alarm ran on batteries, and the red numbers on the display clearly said '5:00'. Too early for an honest man to be awake. Being potentially the most honest man in the city Foggy wasn't certainly going to stay up any longer than he had to. He crawled back into bed, pummeled his pillow into submission and slept the sleep of the just with no more unsettling dreams or nightmares, no more heavy heart or feelings of anxiety.

 

 

 

 

As it turned out, the Devil did _not_ wear pinstripes, though it had been a couple years at least since Foggy had laid eyes on a suit so well-made. He glanced to the clock swiftly, but no change, it still read '9:05', and there was Karen, smiling and giggling while no less than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen held her hand and told her what a lovely voice she had.

Foggy swept into the office on a wave of courage sustained only by righteous wrath.

"Who's this, Karen?" As if he didn't know, as if he weren't expected.

Karen turned that beaming smile on him, the one that had become increasingly rare these past few weeks; he would have been glad to see it if she hadn't been smiling because of this man.

"Oh! Foggy, this is Matthew-"

"Matt." The Devil cut in softly, deceptively gentle.

"Matt Murdock. He's hoping to volunteer-"

"Nope, sorry. No volunteers and or interns needed. I'll show you out, Mr. Murdock."

Karen's slack-jawed look of disbelief proved he was being even ruder than it sounded, but Foggy marched determinedly ahead anyway, ignoring her admonishing pinch when he aggressively tugged at _Matt's_ sleeve to pull him away. He ignored the way his heartbeat flew when instead of protesting the Devil latched onto his arm with a firm grip, violating every principle of personal space when he walked so close their loose-cut pants brushed.

It was the warmth that shocked him most. To the touch this man was human; Foggy knew if he clasped his wrist he would feel a pulse. His skin was warm, hands slightly rough and scarred about the knuckles- just as he had seen in the dream, but his grip was firm without being hard, rather like he was holding a bird.

Foggy didn't relish the idea of playing the bird to Devil's cat.

Hardly were they down the stairs before he began his cross: "What are you doing here? You broke your promise-"

"I delivered your criminal, gave you your revenge-"

"What? No. Not revenge, justice."

"A fine line, one you crossed when you chose to try the case yourself. You wanted him to pay for the death of your client, any other considerations were only a means to extend his sentence. Don't deceive yourself otherwise."

"No, I should leave that to you. He's _dead_. Life in prison I wanted, and he hadn't even begun his sentence-"

"You wanted him thrown in a cell where he would never see the light of day again. He did not."

"Fuck you." Foggy growled, "It's not the same and you know it."

The Devil bowed his head, leaning his surprisingly heavy weight into Foggy's, adjusting his grip just so. "I miscalculated. We discussed this, I am in your debt."

"You're mistaken." Foggy's blood froze in his veins, heart falling somewhere beneath their feet.

"You invited me, spoke with me, asked me to stay. You cannot rescind the invitation, I cannot leave until we are equally balanced again. There is no red ink in _my_ ledger."

"Miscalculated? _You_ miscalculated? Impossible. And I am revoking my consent effective immediately, no red ink, no debts, just you leaving."

"Our laws transcend yours. They are far older."

" _Our_. I didn't think you could freak me out any more, and I was mistaken." Foggy laughed, a forced sound, "So, who else is it in there?"

 _Matt_. Perhaps. The Murdock boy was infamous in Hell's Kitchen. His father's death had marked the beginning of an upheaval that had spelled the end for several crime families, leaving a gap the Russians had been only too eager to fill. The Triad too had taken a fair portion of territory, leaving a trail of corpses in its wake that even the more hardened detectives blanched at. Brett had lost his father to them.

Foggy remembered the call that came in at supper time, Brett's sobbing on the other end of the line while he tried to catch his breath, pleading with Foggy not to hang up on him yet.

An hour later he had no appetite at all. Two hours later had found them both huddled in the basement stairwell of Brett's apartment building, trying to be brave and not cry but both of them failing miserably. His mother had found them there, and Foggy would never forget that somehow she had found the patience to chivvy them upstairs and into PJs, nag them into brushing their teeth and tuck them both into her bed before retiring to the living room again to call Foggy's parents and set them at ease before she finally broke down sobbing in the laundry room where she thought they couldn't hear.

"I'm going to be a cop." Brett had said, and Foggy had hated the idea even then because everyone knew most of them were as dirty as the crooks they arrested, but maybe if someone was there to catch them first, make sure they never got away with it again, maybe then things would start to come right.

"I'm going to be a lawyer."

 

And here they were. And here was a man claiming to be Matt Murdock, claiming to be the son of the man that had set the city ablaze.

They had stopped, the Devil's- Matt's? Head still held low, grip almost desperate, almost a plea-

Nope. He was projecting. This man- this _thing_ did not need saving, this was half the reason his whole city needed saving, the specter that had always haunted the streets.

"You're right." Foggy leaned toward that voice unconsciously, the quiet conviction in it. "This city needs saving. But you're wrong if you think you can accomplish it alone. Look at what you offered me, and all for a name. Consider what I am offering you now- my loyalty, my undivided dedication to your ends-"

"For my soul."

"For my debt, though if you cared to offer?" His sincerity vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a hungry edge in his tone that Foggy shied from. The Devil's grip tightened for a moment to the point of pain, released just as quickly so that he might have imagined it had the bruises not appeared the next day.

"Allow me to stay. Keep me constrained." It sounded like more like the last request of a dying man than the Devil himself. Despite himself, Foggy nearly nodded. He wanted to, desperately. He wanted to believe Matt Murdock was in there somewhere, that he hadn't been consumed, that he could be _saved_.

Foggy shook off the impulse visibly, stepping away as quickly as he dared. The Devil let him go, but Foggy could almost feel him reaching out-

"Stay the hell out of my office and away from Karen. I need to think." _God help me, what is there to think about?_

But there was, so many questions he had yet to formulate, so many answers he could have and so much good he could do if he only had the resources- and here it was, offered for his use with no visible strings attached.

That was the trick though- no string but always a hook, and such tempting bait to go with it. He turned back to say as much, only to see The Devil walking away unchallenged, cane sweeping before him almost defensively, just one more face on the street.


	3. The Devil Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy steps foot in a church and rather wishes he hadn't. Karen asks and receives.
> 
> Matt diabolically gets his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an assault against Karen mid-chapter, with the assurances that she will have her due in a future chapter.

"Lunch hour" Foggy had said, ducking out of the office before Karen could see the unnatural pallor of his skin; it was nearer to three hours now, and he had long since switched off his phone to avoid her increasingly concerned calls.

Ms. Page wasn't the only one who could keep secrets.

His feet had turned first to the police station, heading unerringly for the one friend he knew would never steer him wrong. He had lost his nerve on the steps and bolted away before he could be seen, threading through the crowds with a frantic, clumsy energy. Some invisible tether had pulled him right back into the heart of Hell's Kitchen, treading streets he had not seen in years until a couple nights past.

The church was bright, its doors thrown wide open and welcoming in the daylight.

He had wanted a sign- there it was. A priest sitting on the bench just beyond the churchyard, a steaming coffee in hand as he stared at the leaves sweeping across the sidewalk. A niggling memory vied for Foggy's attention, but he banished it quickly. There were heavier thoughts weighing on his mind than a half-remembered face.

The priest glanced up as he approached, solemn and unreadable. His mother had liked that, he remembered, that they always seemed so withdrawn, so above human concern. For Foggy it had been nothing short of terrifying, the way they seemed to look right through his eyes to all the guilty secrets he held back. This one didn't. Or at least Foggy was assured that whatever he saw did not repel him.

"Franklin. I was hoping to see you."

"It's Foggy now, has been for awhile."

The mask of melancholic resignation melted away, replaced by a smirk Foggy could only call mischievous. "I know."

He didn't know was so funny, but the glimpse of humor was enough to make him sit down. "Do you have a name?"

It was meant for a joke, but the words came out fast and sharp. The priest at his side didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "Are you asking because you want to know or because you're trying to be polite?"

Definitely mischief. Foggy warmed to him immediately. It still didn't solve the problem of how precisely he was supposed to breach the topic of Devils and deals and damnation. The three Ds he was pretty sure were going to give him a heart attack if he thought about them any longer.

"Will you help me up? I'm not as spry as I used to be."

Foggy stood before he could think better of it, offering his hand by rote. The priest's hand didn't feel particularly frail or old in his; it was calloused and rough, still hardened from a life spent outside the walls of his beloved church. Once he had hold of Foggy's hand, he refused to let go, drawing close enough to carefully guide Foggy toward the walkway.

"You're here about Matt I take it."

"What the hell?"

"Language." The priest rebuked softly, not seeming particularly offended.

"What's your name? Asking for me now."

"Lantom. And since I've answered one of your questions?"

"I'm here about the Devil." The words tripped off his tongue with none of his usual finesse, all of it stripped away in a moment.

"Hm. That's what I said. But we should discuss this inside, where we're not in danger of being rained on."

"It's a ten percent chance today. We're not getting rain." He latched onto the normalcy of it like a drowning man would a life-preserver, arguing more for form's sake than any actual investment.

Lantom's hum was noncommittal, doubtful even. Foggy didn't take it personally, still a little overwhelmed at how swiftly the tables had been turned against him. It was never supposed to be this easy, and he was left wondering if this visit had really been his choice at all or if he had been very carefully manipulated.

He glanced at the priest from the corner of his eye, took in the confident set of his shoulders, the determination painting his face and Foggy had his answer. If the old man wanted to talk with him this badly, what did it matter? Heaven knew he had more than a few questions of his own.

Father Lantom closed and bolted the doors behind them with the ease of long practice; he didn't move like an old man, didn't cringe as he bent down or wince when arthritic fingers fumbled with the latch. Were it not for the graying hair and the lines about his face, Foggy could have taken him for a much younger man. When he turned back though, he looked every bit as weary as his years.

"Matt came to me awhile ago now, asking about you. He knew you by name. Did you make a deal with him, Foggy?" As quickly as that, no small talk or gentle easing into the conversation. Lantom breezed by him, leaving Foggy with the vague impression of a shepherd quite certain its sheep wouldn't escape the pen when his back was turned. He glanced back to the bolted doors, narrowed his eyes in consideration before finally determining that really the analysis wasn't too far off the mark.

"Asked about me?" Foggy disregarded the undertone of disappointment he had heard, soldiering on gamely. "Why? What about?"

Lantom lowered himself onto a pew in the back of the church, gesturing to the space before him. Foggy shook his head, he had yielded enough just allowing himself to be guided here, standing was his last vestige of rebellion, one last attempt to keep his illusion of control.

"Everything. Everything about Franklin Nelson."

His confidence vanished, replaced with a renewed sense of illness that churned in his gut and robbed his face of its healthy color.

"Wait. You said Matt-"

"You shouldn't, though. Speak his name and he might appear." There was nothing even vaguely resembling amusement in Lantom's face now. Foggy tried not to be intimidated by that.

The priest continued on, draping his hand on the pew before him for support. "I was worried you might already have given him your soul. This once I am glad to be mistaken."

Foggy sat, unconsciously curling in on himself for whatever warmth it could provide. Questions bubbled up, all of them noted for later, swallowed down so he could hear Lantom speak.

"He did ask for it, didn't he. I can see that much."

"Only as a joke." Foggy offered, swallowing tightly.

"The Devil never jokes."

That was exactly what he was afraid of. Foggy loosened his tie slightly, trying to make the gesture appear to be anything but a nervous tic. "So is it the Devil or is it… the other?" He wanted to say the name, wanted to give the creature something less than its title, a name that would take his mind off of what he had done. What he was even now considering, but a niggling sense of unease told him Lantom hadn't been in jest either.

"Both, I think." Lantom nodded contentedly, pretending it made perfect sense. Perhaps as far as he was concerned, it did. "Matt Murdock, the Devil. They're not quite one and the same. Near enough that you should be wary of both, though."

"So… Jack Murdock's son."

Lantom winced, adjusting himself to avoid the hard wood punishing his old bones. "In the flesh."

"He disappeared. The news ran that story for weeks." It had been quite the sensation, Foggy remembered, raising questions about the safety of Hell's Kitchen and its children, raising questions about the Devil and whether he had a hand in the affair.

The body he had seen might have been that of the Murdock boy plus a few years, but the mind… Foggy knew what he had spoken with, and there wasn't enough empathy in it to be human.

"He disappeared, the Irish mob lost its hold on this city. The Russians moved in, the Triad, a hundred organizations working toward separate goals all banded together- it's not their nature. Someone had to have prompted them. Someone had to keep them in line." Lantom fixed him with calm brown eyes, willing him to understand and accept what he was hearing.

"So what you're telling me is the Devil isn't the _Devil_."

"Lucifer incarnate? No. I think a very hurt, very angry boy struck a deal he didn't understand. And I think somehow he was stubborn enough to still get the better end of it. He visits me here sometimes, he talks with me as a man, with all a man's concerns." Lantom trailed off, looking inward though his eyes fixated on the crucifix at the apex of the church. "I don't think the Devil would have known your name. I don't think it would even have cared. Matt did. That doesn't mean he can't hurt you, just that there's still something left of him in there. God alone knows how much."

"He comes here?" Foggy's skin prickled, taking in his surroundings. It felt like a betrayal to hear it; this was supposed to be holy ground, sanctified. How could something so very _un_ holy tread on it unharmed?

The obvious corollary was that there was no safe place in the city, nowhere he could hide that the Devil could not find him if it chose. Not that he had ever been in the habit of hiding, but the option had been there at the back of his mind, some vague idea that if all else failed he could get Karen and Brett away. Make sure that whatever choice he made wouldn't harm them. Gone now.

He shied away from that knowledge, running through a thousand and one errant thoughts seeking any subject to divert him from it.

"My mother called me, weeks ago now, I think. She said you asked after me. How do you even know me?"

"Changing the subject? That's not like you. The boy I remember always preferred taking the bull by its horns."

"I did that once and it turned around and bit my ass. I'm starting to rethink my whole M.O."

Lantom chuckled, but it sounded more like bitter agreement than amusement that prompted it. "I know everyone that ever stepped through those doors. It's my job to know people. Just like yours is protecting people."

"I wouldn't call it that. You ever heard of my practice? Of course you haven't, because I operate out of a broom closet so far into the red I'll probably never drag myself out again-"

"And you do it because you know it's what you're suited for. You're saving people in your own way."

"I do it because I'm a fu- _freaking_ idiot with too much pride to go crawling back begging for a half-decent job. Don't kid yourself that I'm running some kind of charity. Even if I was, the Devil himself is _way_ beyond my ability to save." Damn. Now that he was thinking about it, _really_ thinking about it, he felt guilty for turning the man away. Felt _guilty_ for telling the Devil to get off his doorstep. All he could see in his mind's eye was Matt Murdock, cane sweeping the sidewalk before him, looking so much smaller once he could not see that disconcerting smile. Alone, and without even the choice of being otherwise.

Would it bother the Matt Murdock that had once been an orphan? Did it haunt whatever he was now?

Wise man that he was, Foggy knew it was this kind of off- the-wall impulse that had dug him into the hole he was in now; it would probably be the one that finished him off.

_Here lies Foggy Nelson, the Devil's Literal Advocate_.

He jammed his palms into his eyes roughly, pushing until spots flecked before his vision. It was just a momentary insanity, the Devil's influence playing on his sympathy for a child that had been dead for nearly twenty years.

He stopped at the sound of Lantom's voice, louder now and more direct. "You can't save someone that doesn't want saving. And if Matt wanted out of his bargain he would have found it by now. What I'm asking, what I'm hoping for, is that maybe if the Devil is going to plague you anyway you might use that lawyer's charm to speak with Matt instead. I'm hoping you can save your soul and maybe convince him to take back his as well."

"The Devil doesn't go back on his deals. Matt's gone. End of story." Foggy was no longer sure whom he was trying to convince.

"A soul isn't tangible. It's nothing a surgeon will find on an operating table, but it's an idea that's persisted for millenia despite that. If it's intangible, it can't be given and if it can't be given then it follows that it always belongs to its original possessor-"

"Don't ever try your hand at law, father." Foggy pushed himself to his feet with an effort, distancing himself from that knowing look as fast as his legs would carry him. He had been wrong, Lantom had looked into him and played on every weakness he had found there. Foggy didn't turn back once as he made for the door. His visit to the church had not left him feeling any lighter as he had hoped, if anything his cares weighed him down all the more keenly.

As he pushed through the door, he felt the first drops of rain on his face. By the time he had reached the end of the walk, it had become a torrential downpour that soaked through his coat. _Wonderful._

 

* * *

 

 

One last time Karen picked up her phone to dial Foggy's number. She could rattle off his answering machine message by heart now for all the good the last dozen or so calls had done her. This one was no better, transferring to voice mail by the second ring. Without an attorney in the office she was less than useless, every file already sorted, every stray dust bunny swept away in the furious cleaning she had undertaken to allay her boredom.

If Foggy had actually taken a moment to consider the man from this morning, maybe she wouldn't be in this fix. At least there would have been someone in the office she could have spoken to, maybe commiserate over Foggy's unconventional schedule and legendary lunch hours.

She pushed away from her desk, pacing around the room for the dozenth time. She didn't like to be here alone any more, it wasn't the sanctuary it had been so many months ago. Now it felt oppressive, even venturing into Foggy's office left her hair standing on end, feeling as though she was no longer welcome there.

Her eyes were unerringly drawn to the drawer where she kept her research, a slight blush of shame creeping up her cheeks. She knew why Foggy's office felt so uncomfortable now. Because at any moment he could ask her to sit down, talk, tell him what it was that had her so troubled. And one day the sheer amount of genuine concern in his gaze, the subtle coaxing tone was going to break her. She would tell him everything about Ben and the mess she had got herself caught up in and then-

Then he would put an end to it. Whatever deal he had struck to save Mrs. Cardenas had left Foggy uneasy and distrustful, more prone to caution than he had ever been before. Karen knew he could very easily talk her into abandoning her objective, twisting everything she said against her was one of his particular gifts whether he meant to or not.

Worse. He might offer to help, might snare himself in the same trap she had been caught in and God help her there was enough on her conscience already to last her a human lifetime.

She glanced out the window, took in the darkening sky, the rain drops on the glass, the wind she could hear seeping through the panes.

It wasn't a good idea, not on the best of days, and certainly not tonight, but Foggy had been worrying and fretting over his lost convict for so long and with the news of his death-

Maybe if she could just lift that weight from his mind he would go back to his old cheerful ways. She had already proved her investigative skills in other areas, and since she had hit a dead end there anyway… why not?

Karen gathered up her purse, taking special care to lock up the office. Foggy would be back tonight, if nothing else he would want to check on her. The locked door should be message enough that she wasn't returning, they could meet tomorrow to go over whatever she found. Perhaps she would even show him the file she was amassing on Hell's Kitchen's newest player- whomever it was that was so crushing the city's criminals under his thumb that they would not speak his name.

She had it if Ben's sources were reliable- Wilson Fisk. The only trouble was that every record she could find of him was spotty at best.

Foggy's Devil had helped him with just such a problem. If Karen thought for a moment he would tell her how he had summoned the Devil she would have asked in a heartbeat, but there was a hint of hardness in the lines of his mouth whenever the Devil came up in conversation these days. She didn't dare ask him.

And Brett… whatever he knew would be carried straight to Foggy's ears. That left her only Ben, the same man that had tried repeatedly to talk her out of the impossible task she had set herself.

"I could really use a little help here." She murmured aloud, shivering at the cold that invaded the office on nights like this one.

There was no cascade of fire or gaping pits ready to swallow her up, but Karen would have been prepared to swear under oath something in the office heard her. She could feel it in the faintly static tingle beneath her skin that sent goosebumps prickling along her arms, the sudden warmth that enveloped her from head to toe that still couldn't chase away the chill in her bones.

She caught her breath, waiting expectantly, but nothing answered her call. Evidently the Devil had business elsewhere.

Karen was surprised to find she was relieved only slightly more than she was disappointed.

 

 

 

The streets that Foggy loved so much had never seemed quite so welcoming or lively to Karen. Every shadow hid a potential assailant, every pedestrian that looked at her just a little too long became a threat. Foggy would have laughed it off, were he with her. Foggy would have goaded her into laughing along and regaled her with stories of his childhood growing up here, sprinkled with anecdotes meant to prove this city was not as rough as it seemed. She knew better. His love for Hell's Kitchen blinded him, it kept him from looking around long enough to see the city with heart he had loved so much was slowly rotting from within.

She lengthened her strides, tilted her chin up and dared anyone to walk too close, one hand tucked into her purse with fingers clenched around her house keys- far sharper than nails, and guaranteed not to break.

Her paranoia was justified tonight; she was going to kick a wasp's nest and in the end she had decided not even to inform Foggy of it. He would have wanted to help, he would have sent Brett to talk sense into her where Ben could not. She just hoped none of those dire warnings actually came true.

The building before her loomed large and decrepit, straggling weeds forcing their way between the cracks in the sidewalk only to wither and die in the unseasonal heat. Withered ivy still clung to it, thorny and dry. Bars across the windows blocked some of the precious light that managed to seep through, dim and unwelcoming as it was. Her imagination, she knew, painted it as far more sinister than mere brick and mortar had any right to be.

Steeling herself against flights of fancy, Karen forced herself to climb the stone stairs and try the door- locked against unwelcome visitors, as she had expected. She glanced at the names pasted on the intercom beside it, trying to decide which among them sounded most likely to let her in. At this hour of the night probably none of them would, and hanging around outside waiting for someone to go in or out would only be asking for trouble.

She tapped a thoughtful heel against the concrete, digging in her purse as though looking for a key. Coming back in the day was not an option, not with her work in the office and the sure knowledge that if she took an extended lunch break like Foggy had, he would insist on coming along. Come back on the weekend and Ben was sure to follow. She knew what she was doing was reckless, and she didn't want to drag him any farther in than she already had. If anything happened to him it would be on her conscience. God knew it was already heavy enough without adding a good man's life to the burden.

But if this were as disreputable a place as it looked, surely it couldn't be all that unusual, people entering at odd hours of the night? If she held her bag expectantly, tried for that eager, desperate look she remembered too well, just another junkie looking for a fix.

Without giving herself time to rethink it she reached out to press the lowest-numbered button.

She felt an arm wrap about her neck and squeeze with enough force that her vision turned splotchy and dark. A sharp heel applied to a vulnerable shin bought her a split second of precious oxygen before a hand tangled in her hair and yanked her off balance, a steady stream of profanity assaulting her ears, incomprehensible threats she could recognize from the tone they were spoken in,

A short scream was all she had time for, not nearly enough to attract attention, even assuming this was the sort of neighborhood where anyone would dare to peek outside for the sound of a struggle, better not to waste her breath on it. She sank her teeth into the meat of her attacker's bicep, choking on a pained cry when a second pair of hands pressed viciously into her jaw, forcing her to release her grip.

"You fucking _bitch_." A fist connected with her side, deflected in part by her bag. She recoiled, trying to put enough space between them to at least spot a defining feature. The voice had not been familiar, but if she could just match a face to it- her keys raked across unprotected skin, just as a back-handed slap sent her to the pavement, elbow skinned on the stair's edge. She screamed again when a rough hand tangled in her hair, drawing her head back for what she was sure would be a killing blow- one hit to her trachea and she would be down, defenseless.

Not again.

The snarl that forced its way past her bruising throat was inhuman, filled with such impotent rage her assailant's grip faltered for all of a second. She wept when as her fingernails bent and broke raking across and through the material of his jeans, scraping exposed flesh viciously. A boot connected with her stomach, sent her writhing to the ground, unable to do more than gasp for breath, taking in dirt and rock but still deprived of air. Dimly she tasted bile gathering in the back of her throat, spit it at the foot that was drawing back for another blow.

Her teeth cut into her cheek when it landed, sharp iron flooding her mouth. She couldn't do more than writhe, trying desperately to force herself up off her knees, arms still clasped defensively around her ribs, braced for the next blow she knew was coming.

She was not meant to survive this. They were going to beat her to death here in the street, and her unable even to plead or curse them.

It was the first laugh that broke her, a joyous shout that drowned out the sound of her first desperate gasp of air when one of them kicked her hard enough to send her tumbling to her side, dazed and in agony, fury and fear clawing at her insides in equal measure.

" _How dare you_?"

It was no more than a whisper, sustained by the last bit of air in her lungs. Her mouth protested the movement with a stinging sensation she knew would blossom into pain if she focused on it. Her arms nearly gave beneath her as she pushed herself up, swallowing her blood rather than giving them the pleasure of seeing it. She hoped whomever found her would find the skin beneath her nails, minute traces of DNA that would lead them back to these fuckers. She hoped Brett wasn't half as good a cop as Foggy thought he was, that maybe they would both end up thrown into the filing cabinet rumor said the downtown department had to replace every three months for all the accidents they kept having.

Neither moved toward her when she forced herself to her feet, tears seeping down her cheeks to dot the concrete no matter how she tried to stifle them. She had been here before, had never thought to be here again. Last time she had sworn it wouldn't be like this, that she would be braver and make them pay. That hadn't happened. Turned out that frightened little girls grew into frightened women after all.

They spoke in a language she couldn't understand, and though their faces were concealed from the light by the brims of their hats, she could make out the curve of smiles.

"I hope the fucking _Devil_ takes you." If they were going to be her last words, at least they should be memorable. And in this city, those words meant something.

The smiles disappeared at last. She braced, tensing for one final, desperate lunge when one of them finally took a step toward her, light glimmering on the wicked edge of a knife he pulled from the folds of his jacket. She nearly strangled on the whimper that rose in her throat-

The light above her flickered and fizzled, sparks falling before her in a bright shower just before darkness took them all. The panicked moan that drifted through the air was not hers, neither the stream of broken profanity, mixed English and Russian? She lowered herself back to the sidewalk, beyond caring but unfortunately not beyond feeling. Their running footsteps echoed in her ears, their final words just before they dissolved into screams. Karen couldn't even lift her head, didn't flinch when she felt something move past her, more of an impression than any actual movement.

The shadows gathered about her, smothered the unmistakable sounds of her assailants' death rattles mere feet from her. Every part of her was afire without the protection of an adrenaline rush. She coughed, curling in on herself like an infant, protecting her vulnerability. She didn't register when the light flickered back to life, the streets all around her conspicuously empty of life. Just her, lying on cool stone in the hope that it would stop the burning-

Footsteps approached, slow and measured, a peculiar swish accompanying the sound that she could not recognize. Mustering her strength she forced herself back to her knees, using the lamp-post's leverage to regain her feet, scrabbling at the catch of her heels until she could finally kick them off. She wasn't steady, but she was standing when the owner of the footsteps approached, leaning over the edge of the curb wondering if she were going to vomit into the street.

A soft _thunk_ drew her attention back to her surroundings, sent adrenaline rushing anew through her system-

Her purse. She glanced at it, taking in the cane that had tapped against it, the puzzled frown of the man that stood before it, kneeling to gather it up into his hands. He didn't quite look at her when he spoke, glancing instead at the pole slightly to her left, "Ma'am, are you all right? You dropped this and-"

"Mr. Murdock?" Her voice was hoarse, but she could hear the shock threading through her tone, could see the frown on his face deepen at the greeting.

"Yes? I'm sorry, have we-"

"Karen." She choked out.

His brows flew up, questioning frown replaced with lines of worry- "Miss Page, are you all right? What happened?" He stepped nearer, reaching out to her slowly, pulling away quickly when he felt her flinch back.

"Muggers, I-" She couldn't go to the hospital, but she _hurt_ -

"But your purse- you're hurt. I have a phone, we should-"

"No! No." Even her shout was little more than a murmur of sound, and her head pounded with the effort of it.

He gathered his cane near, hands twisting about it reflexively, "Please, Karen, you sound like you've been hurt very badly. Let me at least call a cab- you should be going to the hospital. I can come along, we'll file a report-"

"No, please, just- my purse. I need my purse."

He offered it to her slowly, extending his hand again as though asking for hers in return. She wasn't sure how much longer she could stay standing without it, and he looked so perfectly unassuming-

Unthinking, she rested an arm against his, allowing him to bear a little of her weight, only now beginning to tremble in every line of her body.

"At least let me call a cab to get you home."

Karen nodded mutely, remembered herself and quickly squeezed his arm in assent, bleary eyes scanning the ground for her keys.

She didn't speak a word as he fished the cell from his pocket, didn't ask what business he had on this side of town or how he had known her voice damaged as it was. Those questions did not occur to her until much later. She turned inward, allowing him to shepherd her along gently, drawing her back into the shelter of the light while they waited. She hardly noticed when he left her side, locating her keys with unerring accuracy and slipping them deftly into the purse clutched protectively in her arms.

She rested instead, withdrawing comfortably into the familiar armor of shock.

 

* * *

 

 

Careful though he was the rough washcloth stung against her new cuts, abrading tender skin not yet healed. Karen fought to keep her breathing even, struggling against the impulse to jerk away every time Matt leaned forward with the dreaded cloth in hand, newly soaked with soap and water. A bottle of iodine sat unassumingly on the table next to her when she wasn't fiddling with it, trying to distance herself from the cold reality of it all.

For the fifth time in as many minutes she craned her neck to look around him, taking in the darkened room. Wood floors as far as the eye could see without so much as a rug in sight, furniture that had clearly seen better days but looked comfortable for all that, bare walls and empty tables devoid of any personal touches. It made sense, she supposed, he had no use for pictures and he had not struck her as a particularly sentimental man, so why should his home be cluttered with baubles?

Matt's fingers gripped her chin, forcing her to face him again, holding her in place for his ministrations. A chill swept through her, sending a final shudder through her frame Mr. Murdock tactfully pretended he had not noticed. Karen felt the way he paused though, the new hesitancy in his touch when he finally set to work again, as silent and methodical as he had been since sitting her down at the kitchen table with a bottle of cheap whiskey to hand. He didn't seem the type to drink it, but at his quiet urging she had taken her fair share and some of his as well.

She had been attacked, deliberately targeted. There was no other possible explanation for why her assailants had been so willing to choose such an uncooperative victim. The first sign of resistance and they should have been running, but they had relished every second of it instead. Of course, it hadn't been much of a fight-

Exploratory fingertips ghosted across her face to find the curve of her split lip and press into it viciously.

" _Ow._ "

"Sorry." Murdock winced, pausing for only a split second before going back to work. "I'm a little shaken."

Karen pulled away deliberately, snorting with laughter she hadn't realized was left in her. "Yeah? Me too." Again she reached for the bottle, taking a light sip, already lightheaded with shock and fatigue but past caring. Matt's polite mask slipped for all of a second, something baleful and taunting flickering across his expression before she had seen it. By the time she had set the bottle aside, his face was set in lines of concern again, a frown gathering on his brow for all that his tone was even.

"Are you sure you don't want to call someone?"

"No cops." To say her history with the Hell's Kitchen police department was colorful would be an understatement, but this man didn't need to know it.

"Mr. Nelson, maybe? I think he would take a vested interest in your welfare." Murdock's tone was so neutral it could only be a rebuke. It was inevitable, really, that Foggy would find out, but that could wait until morning when she had several hours of sleep and enough caffeine to power an army running through her veins.

"Not tonight," she snapped, immediately regretting the tone. It wasn't Matt's fault she was tired and aching and still scared stiff, but so far he had borne the brunt of it. She drew a breath and tried again, mentally counting down from a hundred. "It's late and he's probably"- _working, reading, drinking himself to sleep- "_ Sleeping. Soundly. This can wait."

Silence blanketed them, but it held none of the comfort of a few minutes ago, laden with unvoiced reproach as it was. "By the way, has he called you back yet? I know he was a little brusque, but I swear that's not the norm and we could really use the extra help." Any port in a storm, any topic to save herself from Matt Murdock's accusatory silence.

"I'm sure he's been busy. As have you, apparently." Matt laid the cloth aside, wiping his fingers carefully on another he had draped over the chair. She flinched at the pink stains, barely restraining herself from reaching up to run an inquisitive hand over her battered face.

"Honestly I'd rather not talk about it." They were back at square one, with Matt gamely trying to make a case for filing a police report and Karen dead-set against it. God save her from any more attorneys.

Finally he sighed, and she could hear the tinge of defeat in it, frustration and resignation mingling in equal measure. He pushed out of his chair and made his way to the cabinet above the sink, pulling down a glass and filling it to the brim with water. He downed it in a few quick gulps, fingers clenched on the glass as though it was the only thing preventing him from doing violence.

"I won't push you, but I disagree."

The apartment grew darker, eerily still even for that hour. There should have been sirens or traffic, hell, Murdock's entire window was taken up by a glowing LED screen, but just then she felt swallowed by the darkness.

Karen leapt into the silence, eager to bring him back from whatever memory he had retreated into."So, this isn't really that far from the office. You could probably walk it in twenty minutes."

"Miss Page, are you asking to stay the night?" Feigned shock, a smile tugging at his lips that did nothing to banish her unease. It settled on his face unnaturally, and vanished just as swiftly.

"No, I want to go home as badly as you want me to-"

"It's no trouble." He pushed away from the sink, setting the glass aside as though he hadn't been about to crush it in his bare hand a moment before. "I can respect your preference for avoiding any entanglements, but it would be better if you didn't stay alone tonight."

There was no question in his tone, not even a hint that her refusal was a possibility. It vexed her unreasonably that he should so casually assume her cooperation but…

She didn't want to be alone either.

"I'll take the couch, then."

"The bed would be best. You will thank me in the morning when you really start to feel this."

Tomorrow was going to hurt, she didn't need him to tell her that. And with the glowing sign-

"All right, bed." She pushed herself up from the table reluctantly, feeling a myriad of abrasions check in and what she suspected might be a bruised rib. "Would you be so kind as to walk me to work tomorrow? Just in case."

"Just in case Mr. Nelson is considering walk-in candidates?" His arched brow said clearly she had not been half so subtle as she supposed, but no offense was taken.

"I'm really not kidding about needing the help." Especially now that she had suddenly acquired so much extra work, beginning with unearthing the identity of her attackers.

"I'll consider it, Miss-"

"Karen." Her throat closed up, choked with tears she was only now beginning to feel building. The trick would be getting to bed as fast as possible before he picked up on it.

"Matt." He reached out tentatively, but his grip was steady and firm when she slipped her hand into his. His hands were soft as hers to the first touch, but her fingers felt the raised welts of scars along his knuckles, lines of work and care worn into his palms. Not hands she would have associated with an attorney but-

"Nice meeting you, Matt."

 

* * *

 

 

 

By nine Foggy was beginning to worry. It was an unspoken agreement that Karen would be in the office by eight, Foggy would be in by eight-thirty, and he would gladly atone for his tardiness with gifts of bagels and coffee to placate the savage beast that was Karen without breakfast.

This morning he had strolled through the door at five after eight, a bag of bagels in his left hand and not two but _four_ cups of coffee nestled comfortably in the holder he was balancing desperately on his right. He was tired, every aching muscle screaming at him for even daring to be awake after three hours of fitful sleep, but pleased despite all that.

The priest's words had haunted him as he dozed off last night, had echoed through his thoughts until he dragged himself from bed to the couch, counting on late night shows to put him to sleep again as they had so many times during school.

No dice. His heavy thoughts refused to be ignored any longer, plaguing him until he had finally given up and actually begun to consider how he would deal with his infernal problem in the long run. The answer had come to him at false dawn, no longer nodding on the couch but leaning against the kitchen counter, long since cooled tea sitting just out of his reach. So many questions had raced through his mind, and most of them irrelevant now that he thought back on it.

Did the Devil want to be near him or was it Matt Murdock? Was Matt Murdock the Devil? Did he live in any recognizable sense? Could he, as Lantom had insinuated, be saved? Was it really his business either way?

Irrelevant. Irrelevant because the only questions he needed to ask himself was whether he had fulfilled his part of their bargain and whether any good had come of it. The answer to the first was undeniably yes, the answer to the second was… more ambiguous, but Foggy's conscience prodded him toward a firm 'no.' Logically then he should sever contact. Sprinkle salt at the doorway, keep holy water near his desk…

Assuming it had any effect. Water seemed such a flimsy defense against a creature that had proved itself capable of unfeeling murder. But he had been prepared to try, determined to keep this last place safe from the Devil's influence, to make sure Karen wasn't caught up in another tragedy so soon on the heels of another, to make sure Brett would not be called out to an attorney's office to clean up a bloody mess that might once have been Foggy or Karen or an innocent bystander-

Foggy poked his head out of his office again, glancing at Karen's empty desk. She had been keeping strange hours these past few weeks; staying out later than planned, actually taking her full hour's lunch rather than skipping back in fifteen minutes early. Until now he hadn't thought anything of it; it was her time and none of his business how she spent it.

Or at least it hadn't been until half an hour ago.

Feeling guilty as sin he crept to the desk, one ear cocked for the sound of footsteps, half hoping Karen would magically appear to throw open the office door and ask him why he was bothering to sneak around his own office. Unfortunately the silence was broken only by the creak of the floorboards and the echo of the fan he had switched to its highest setting in the hopes of dispelling the lingering old building smell that still clung to the place. He rested his palms atop the wood, felt the way it had warped and splintered.

They needed new furniture almost as badly as they needed a new computer, both of which would come when they had the client base to support it but-

The top drawer was locked, either that or jammed. He tugged again to be sure, glaring incredulously at the keyhole. Karen had every pertinent file for their practice locked in a single drawer that the man whose name was on the door could not open. The creeping sense of guilt vanished to be replaced by an eerie calm.

Karen could have locked it against burglars or absentmindedly turned the key and slid it from the lock as they were leaving. She could have picked up the habit before bringing her wasted talents to a law practice that hardly deserved the name yet. Any of these things might have been true, but Foggy knew instantly they weren't. He knew her too well, a hazard of the misadventures they had already shared, a necessary prerequisite to calling her a friend. Not only was Karen hiding something but she was using their one retreat to do it.

And the Devil had stood right here, where he was standing now, holding her hand and mouthing platitudes designed to get him past the front door and keep him there.

Irrelevant. The word repeated again and again in Foggy's mind, ringing with less conviction each time.

Karen was sneaking, the Devil had come calling, the city was growing restless. Taking any one it would be easy to dismiss them for coincidence, take them together and it painted a rather grim portrait.

Footsteps in the hall pulled him back into the present quickly enough to send him scurrying from the desk before the door creaked open, Karen peaking about the edge with uncharacteristic timidity. Foggy could feel another presence just beyond her, shielded from view by the door yet still setting his hackles on edge with anticipation.

"Foggy, I need you to promise me you're not going to freak out."

"Well, I mean, no promises." His forced smile slipped from his lips as Karen slowly stepped into the room, still wearing yesterday's clothes but conspicuously spattered with droplets of-

"Blood? Shit, Karen, what-"

The voice he had been dreading spoke, soft but firm and with just an edge of an insinuated threat Foggy knew he wasn't imagining. "Karen was attacked by muggers last night on her way home. Fortunately I overheard. I think my approach must have scared them off."

Murdock stepped out from behind the door, offering a solicitous arm when Karen absentmindedly reached back to tug him forward. "It's not as bad as it looks-"

"Good, because it looks like hell." Foggy shoved aside all thought of the Devil and his damnable habit of appearing where he was not wanted. Karen's eyes were swollen and dark, cheeks already yellowing into a bruise, lips starting to bleed again now that she was forcing a smile and the way she clutched her purse to her chest reminded him of precisely what it felt like to get hit with a baseball in the sternum.

That the Devil had something to do with it he did not doubt, that he had led all three of them to this point in time with his sheer stupidity in attracting Murdock's attention was beyond question. As was the fact that as soon as he was certain Karen had received all the care she needed, he was going to show Murdock the door no matter how much his overactive conscience pricked him. He knew the raw end of a deal when he saw one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Every week" she said several months ago.
> 
> Sorry, I delayed to watch S2 to see if it would change anything and then debated exactly how much that was going to be.
> 
> The good news is, this chapter ended here because a significant portion of the next chapter has already been tidied up, but I can't find a convenient place to end it and didn't want to post Hobbes' Leviathan instead of a mere chapter. :)
> 
> Feel free to take that how you will, RL is a hurricane at the moment and I can't promise anything.

**Author's Note:**

> http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=4528328#cmt4528328
> 
> The rating may increase on this one, but if it does it should only be for a chapter or so which will be marked ahead of time. 
> 
> As always concrit is both welcome and appreciated! :)
> 
> And the verses used between Matt and Lantom, in order (KJV):
> 
> Romans 3:23- 'For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.'
> 
> James 3:8- 'But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.'
> 
> Proverbs 10:19- 'In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise.'
> 
> 1 Peter 5:8- 'Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.'


End file.
